


Silentium Inter

by amy_vic



Category: West Wing
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-10
Updated: 2010-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amy_vic/pseuds/amy_vic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's late, and they're out of coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silentium Inter

**Author's Note:**

> Originally writen for the 2007 edition of [this Toby/Sam ficathon](http://community.livejournal.com/partnersbaby/3430.html).
> 
> Also, according to the Latin dictionary website I looked up, the title translates, literally, into "the silence between". Which I think is very fitting, given that both Toby and Sam can say an awful lot without actually talking.

"We need more coffee." Toby announces as he stands up. His spine pops, and he tosses his pen down on the desk. "We'll never get damn thing done without more coffee."

Sam looks up from his laptop, sees that Toby is serious about the coffee (although, Sam has learned, Toby's always serious when it comes to caffeine). "Yeah, I could use a break. And some pie; think we could find some?"

"In this building? Are you kidding me?" Toby says over his shoulder as he walks out, and Sam has to jog a few steps before he catches up. Toby doesn't head towards the mess, and Sam is about to ask why they're apparently going to ransack Donna's desk when Toby stops in front of the coffeemaker and kneels down to open the cabinet beneath.

"Don't tell me that you...y'know, I'm not even going to question why you have pie stashed here," Sam says. He turns around, planning on just going back to his office-Toby doesn't need help carrying the pie-when he notices the small fridge outside Josh's office door. He doesn't remember it being here yesterday, so (naturally) he opens the door to see what's inside. "Hey, Toby, you want a beer?"

"Thanks," Toby says, twisting off the cap; it gets held between thumb and forefinger for a second just before Toby flicks it into Josh's wastebasket, just inside the open office door. It drops in a perfect arc.

"Two points," Sam notes. His own beer cap follows a moment later, but the angle's different, and his bounces of the rim before dropping in. "You know, we should set up a staff basketball game, maybe once a month or something, what do you think? I know Josh plays, and he's pretty good. Although, he'd probably be too intimidated by CJ to bring his A game. Don't tell him I told you that, by the way."

Toby snorts. "Yeah, don't expect to see me at these games, okay? That'll just be more ammunition for Andy, claiming that I never make time for her. We're practically scheduling appointments to see each other during work hours as it is."

Sam puts his beer down on the cabinet, next to a half-empty box of cereal. He's only met Toby's wife a couple of times, and most of those were formal (or at least, work-related) events where she introduced herself as Congresswoman Wyatt. So he doesn't know her too well personally, but she can't really be the shrew Toby's trying to make her out to be. "Toby, come on, it wouldn't be that bad. And anyway, I happen to know that quite a few members of Congress have their own basketball game every Thursday night; from what I hear, Andy does her best work from behind the three-point line, so she'd be a hypocrite for giving you a hard time about it."

"How in the world do you know that?" Toby asks, looking a little bewildered. "I mean about the game, not Andy's jump shot."

Sam shrugs nonchalantly. "I was invited once."

"You were." Toby raises an eyebrow, and Sam's known him just long enough to recognize this as saying, "You're full of shit."

"I was," Sam protests, slightly defensive. He still has trouble figuring out when Toby's joking; it happens so infrequently. "I was talking to Congressman Skinner, you know Matt, right, and he-"

It happens fast; one second Sam is talking, and the next, Sam's back is pressed against the wall with Toby's mouth firm on his. Sam isn't quite sure what's going on, but to his credit, he goes with it. He's always been a fast learner.

Toby tastes like the cigar he was smoking earlier and the mouthful of beer he took a minute ago. It's an oddly sweet taste-sweeter than Sam would expect-but it seems to suit Toby. Ever since Sam has started working for Toby, he's come to associate the older man with the smell of cigar smoke.

And, yeah, maybe he's got a little crush (as much as grown men _get_ crushes), maybe it's some slightly twisted form of hero-worship having to do with the fact that he's still angry at his own father in that way that little boys never seem to outgrow, or maybe he's just screwed up and about to possibly ruin his entire political future, here in Washington or anywhere else, but Sam kisses back just as hard.

When they finally pull apart, Toby stands and watches Sam for a moment. Maybe he thinks Sam will run, but Sam just stays where he is, licking his bottom lip absently.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," Toby mutters suddenly. He turns away and taps his index finger on the side of his beer. "That was...really stupid of me, Sam. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sam says. He may be younger than half the staff, but that doesn't mean he's stupid, or blind. Toby kissing him, he suspects, has very little to do with kissing _him_. As much as he liked it (and as much as he hates to admit it to himself) it was more likely about being in the right place at the right time.

Toby shrugs a little and says something else, but his back is still to Sam, so Sam has to ask him to repeat himself. "I said, I'm not gay, Sam."

Sam blinks. He's very glad his beer is still next to the cereal, because he'd most likely either spit it out or drop the bottle. "I never said you were, Toby. Why would you think-?"

"I just...don't want you to think that this is a-a thing."

"Do...you want it to be?" Sam asks, very carefully. Toby doesn't respond, but the look on his face is answer enough. They both know it would never work, anyway. Sam nods a little, mainly to himself, and then looks at Toby. "So, what you're saying is that it's late, you're exhausted and a little bit buzzed, and that it was a one time deal?"

Toby rubs a hand across his face, like a man who's just waking up from a dream. "I...yeah. Yeah."

Sam smiles a little and picks up his beer. There's condensation sweating down the glass, and he wipes it off with his sleeve. "Okay. Then bring the pie, and we'll see if we can't get this speech done before the Yankees game ends. That is, if your pencils can handle all that writing; I still don't understand why you don't just type it up, it's so much faster."

"You make cracks like that, and I'll show you just why I use pencils." Toby says. "You'll come into work tomorrow morning with little tiny stab marks, all over your hands."

"Did you get a knife for the pie, or are you just gonna use a pencil to cut it? Or your letter opener, maybe?" Sam laughs, and it's worth the shove Toby gives him, causing him to skid sideways into the doorframe.


End file.
